XVIII.
In hours with bitterest anguish fraught
Hope courts each vision fancy-wrought;
Each aid, though fragile as the reed
That mocks the drowning suppliant's need.
Though Reason's monitory call
May warn us from delusion's thrall,
Hope, like the rainbow's lovely form,
Waves its bright hues to mock the storm,
Luring from earth our dull regard
Like Icarus on high to soar;
Alas! like his, too, our reward:
The pleasant paths of earth no more
To trace; in the ocean of despair
Wailing the loss of visions fair
Whose fairy scenes, that charmed the sight,
Rose but to whelm in deeper night
The trusting heart that fain would think
They wooed it from destruction's brink.
Alas! when sorrow's bitter cup
The hand of fate hath lifted up,
What mortal hand hath power to fling
The pestilent potion to the wind ?
